


lay me down, my love

by orphan_account



Series: in absentia luci, tenebrae vincunt [7]
Category: Political RPF - US 21st c., Pundit & Broadcast Journalist RPF (US)
Genre: And It Doesn't Get Easier, Enemies to Lovers, Hate Sex, Infidelity, M/M, Making the Right Choice is Hard, Other, Regret, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-25 01:34:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10753989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He has no one to blame but himself.





	lay me down, my love

They meet at a coffee shop in Baltimore. Neither of them want to risk being seen, being recognized – neither of them are that famous outside D.C. or New York, but in those cities, they’re like celebrities. The sun’s about to set and Maggie’s sipping at a decaf latte while Katie leaves her water untouched.

“And that’s everything?” Maggie asks. She’s shoved the files into her bag and Katie’s already explained everything, but she wants to make sure. A creeping feeling crawls up her spine and she forces it away.

“That’s everything,” Katie says with a nod. She taps her fingers against her glass and pauses a moment, before looking back at Maggie. “But… can I just ask for one favor?”

“I’ll leave your name out of it,” Maggie promises. “These files should be more than enough evidence.”

“No, it’s not that…” She looks back down into her lap for a moment, biting the corner of her lip. She’s kind of cute, Maggie thinks, offhandedly, when Katie speaks again. “Can you keep Reince out of it?”

Maggie lets out a slow sigh. “Look, Katie…”

“I know,” Katie says, looking up at her. “I know it’ll be hard, I know he’s a central character in all of this, and I know he’s not a good guy, but, well… at least warn him, okay? I know Sally – she… she doesn’t deserve this. Not her, not her kids. They… they should be kept out of this.”

“You could say the same thing about Conway’s kids,” Maggie counters, and while she’s trying not to be mean, she wants to make sure her point is clear – if she makes an exception for Priebus, it’s only fair to make an exception for everyone.

Katie lets out a humorless chuckle. “Yeah, I guess that’s a point.” She shakes her head. “Will you at least think about it? Please?”

“I will,” Maggie assures her. She hesitates for a brief second, then moves forward and puts her hand on Katie’s. “You did the right thing, Katie. You don’t have to regret this.”

“I know,” Katie replies, but she doesn’t sound at all convinced, and Maggie doesn’t know what to say in response to that, so she doesn’t say anything.

They just sit at that table, at that coffee shop, and they don’t say anything at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reince hasn’t seen Steve all day and honestly, that’s the most relieving experience about this whole thing. Yes, healthcare looks like it’s not going to be passed and yes, people hate their tax plan and Mnuchin has joined the ranks of the liars and the cheats, and yes, he can easily spot himself in all these ‘Take Your Child to Work Day’ pictures because of his conspicuous bald spot –

But still, Steve is nowhere to be found, Jack and Grace are happy playing around with the other kids or watching one of the three TVs in his office – and everything, for once in his fucking career as fucking Chief of Staff, he’s spending some time with his kids.

Paul’s calling him, probably about healthcare, and Reince hits ignore in favor of watching a muted Jake Tapper while listening to the sounds of Disney Channel. There’s probably something funny and poetic in that, but he doesn’t get to reflect on it for that long.

Because Steve opens the door to his office. “Reince, can I talk with you?”

 _Go to hell,_ Reince thinks, but can’t exactly say, not when his kids are right there. He looks over at them, briefly, makes sure they’re fully invested in whatever’s happening on TV, before slowly getting up. He follows Steve into his office and then he’s being pushed up against the closed door.

“Steve, what –” Reince tries to argue, but Steve covers his mouth with his hand, the other wrapped loosely around his throat and idly rubbing against all those bruises he’s been hiding. Reince swallows hard and doesn’t speak.

“You can’t do that,” Steve says. His voice is low and his face is mostly shadow and in the dimly-lit room, he looks like the monster he truly is. “Do you hear me? You can’t fucking do that, you fucking piece of shit.”

Reince blinks and doesn’t speak. He’s almost afraid to.

“You have to let me explain,” Steve continues. “You can’t fucking abandon me like that, throw me to the fucking globalist cunts and just leave me to die. You know why?” He pauses and presses his face even closer. Reince thinks he’s going to throw up. He can’t breathe.

Steve moves and whispers right into his ear. “You can’t throw me away because I am the only one who is looking out for you. Everyone else is out looking for themselves – the cucks, the assholes, the idiots – but I am here and I am trying to help you. And what do you do – you go behind my back and try to fuck me over because of a single fucking mistake.” His hand tightens around Reince’s throat, very briefly, then quickly loosens. “Don’t you dare throw me away again. Okay?”

Reince nods vehemently, tears filling his eyes. This was a mistake. This was a huge mistake and now he is paying the price. Steve lets go of his neck and then, for whatever reason, reaches down into Reince’s pants and grips his dick. His strokes are rough and angry, disorganized and improper, but Reince starts to get hard anyway. He leans his head against the wall and closes his eyes, tries to think of anything else, but Steve starts talking again.

“I can help you,” he says, voice still gravelly, but there’s a sweeter edge to it as he tries to sell Reince on his message. His movements speed up and he leans even closer, the kiss he presses to his shoulder feather light and so very gentle. “Let me help you.”

Reince nods again. His mouth is dry and he doesn’t think he could speak even if he wanted to, but then Steve moves his hand off of his mouth and cups the back of his head to kiss him properly. It tastes like it always did, feels like it always did, and he forces himself not to cry.

“Tell me to help you,” Steve says quietly. “Tell me you need me.”

“I…” Reince takes a deep breath and forces out the words. “I need you.”

Steve tightens his grip and Reince thinks he’s going to rip his dick off at this rate. And then Reince hits his head against the wall and he’s coming into Steve’s hands and all inside his boxers. He takes a few more breaths, just standing there, and then Steve zips up Reince’s pants and buckles his belt.

“I’ll stay away from your kids for now,” Steve promises. “But you should go freshen up.” He kisses him again, all chaste and sweet, disgustingly so, and Reince opens his eyes and heads out of the office.

“I’ll see you later,” Steve calls after him.

Reince doesn’t respond. He heads straight for the bathroom, right for an empty stall, and dry-heaves into the toilet. He doesn’t know how long he spends kneeling on the floor, hands covering his face, silently sobbing. His children are here, they’re in his office, and Steve Bannon just gave him a handjob.

“How the fuck did it end up like this?” he whispers quietly. There’s no response. Not that he was expecting one. But it makes him feel even more alone.

And he has no one to blame but himself. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I don’t understand,” Sally says, and it makes Dina feel a little bit guilty about what she’s doing – after all, it’s not like she herself isn’t a little bit guilty for being involved in all of this. And she’d be devastated if someone told her husband about what she’s been doing with Ivanka. She sighs and takes a slow sip of her water.

Sally shakes her head. “I don’t understand,” she says again. “I – it makes absolutely no sense. He and Bannon – they’re not – I – Reince isn’t gay.”

Dina turns to Ivanka, who sighs and reaches out to put her hand on Sally’s shoulder. “I know it’s hard to believe,” she says, softly, “but please, if you just take the flash drive…”

Sally pushes her hand away. “I don’t want to take it,” she huffs. “There’s – there’s no way you have any legitimate proof of this. For all I know, you doctored this and are trying to get Reince out of the White House.”

“We’re not,” Dina says. She sets her glass down and looks Sally right in the eyes, then averts her gaze slightly. “Well… we were, at first, but not for him – for Bannon. We thought that we could use this to somehow blackmail him and get him out of the President’s ear. But, well, as you can probably tell, Bannon is incorrigible and he doesn’t think that it would hurt his reputation at all. And then, well…”

She pauses a moment for dramatic effect and turns back to Sally. “We thought about it – how we would feel if it were one of us in your place and our husband was on this clip and… well, I’d rather hear about it from a friend than from someone in the media.”

Sally doesn’t say anything. Her eyes drift from Dina and down to the flash drive on the table. Dina knows she’s going to take it, so she checks her phone and frowns. “Looks like we’re needed back at the White House,” she says to Ivanka. They get to their feet, but Ivanka goes over and bends down to Sally.

“Hey,” she says, “if you need anything – anything at all – please let us know, all right?”

Sally swallows hard and nods. “Okay,” she says, then, “Thank you.”

Ivanka smiles sweetly and gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze, and they walk out onto the street and to the car parked over in the corner. The Secret Service agent nods and opens the door for them before starting up the car.

“That was a good story you spun back there,” Ivanka says. She reaches into her purse and pulls out a compact mirror, reapplying her lipstick.

Dina chuckles softly and gives a shrug. “The best lies come from the truth,” she hums. She crosses her legs and leans back, meeting her eyes through the mirror. “You weren’t so bad yourself – that ender was phenomenal.”

“It was genuine,” Ivanka insists with a playful huff.

“I know,” Dina smirks.

Ivanka rolls her eyes and Dina leans over to kiss her softly. She cards her fingers through her hair and slides a hand up her shirt, pulling away briefly to whisper in her ear. “Maybe we can invite Sally with us next time?”

“You’re incorrigible,” Ivanka laughs, and she presses their lips together again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reince finds his bags packed by the door when he gets home that day, and he waits until the kids have gone to their rooms to find Sally in the living room, scrolling through channels. She puts CNN on mute and Jake Tapper wordlessly moves his mouth, like an omen of ill-fortune.

It’s complete silence for a moment, and then Reince asks, “Who told you?”

“I think you just did,” Sally replies, “when you asked me that question.” Her face is turned away from him, toward the TV, and he wonders if she’s crying. She hasn’t cried, not since the _Access Hollywood_ tape came out, not since Trump became the Republican nominee, not since he won the election and named her husband his Chief of Staff.

Reince sighs. He’s been a terrible husband. He tries to reach out, tries to touch her, tries to apologize for his misdeeds, but his hand just won’t move and the words just won’t come out. He thinks he might start to cry.

“I think you should go,” Sally says. She clears her throat. “I’ll tell the kids you had work. They’ll understand. But we can’t have this conversation right now – not right now.”

“Okay,” Reince says, because that’s all he can manage. And then, because he has to, because he has to make sure she knows, he says, “I love you.”

She doesn’t say anything, and that’s answer enough.

Reince takes his bags and heads out the door.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You looked at the final version yet?” Maggie asks. She’s standing outside, right where, days ago, she got dragged into this entire mess. It seems fitting that she should have this conversation here.

“Just finished reading it,” Glenn says. “Might be your best work yet.”

“Yeah?” she says, but it comes out as mostly a sigh.

“You don’t sound so happy about that,” he points out, and she imagines his brow furrowing as he leans forward at his desk. “Is everything all right?”

She doesn’t know what to say, for a moment, but then the words come out themselves. “I don’t think I’m going to publish it.”

“Wait, _what_?” Glenn sputters. “But – but all of this, this whole thing – it’s been eating at you for days, weeks, even. What about all that talk about not being a pawn in their stupid-ass game of chess?”

“This article would change me from a pawn and into a player, and that’s not what I want either,” Maggie says, slowly. A cool breeze flows by and she doesn’t feel it at all. “Besides, we’ve got more important things to do than Page Six gossip, right?”

“Yeah… I guess we do,” Glenn says, slowly. “I’ll, uh, let everyone else know, then.”

“I actually have a better idea. I’ll text it in the group chat.” She pulls her phone away for a moment and checks the time. “All right, I’ll let you get back to doing actual work. Talk tomorrow.”

“Have a good night,” he says, and hangs up.

She considers going back inside, but something else suddenly comes to mind, and she finds herself scrolling through her contacts and dialing another number. She presses her phone back against her ear and the call is answered after a single ring. “Hey, Katie.”

“Hi, Maggie,” Katie says. She sounds tired – not physically, but definitely in every other sense of the words.

Maggie sighs. She leans against the wall and sits down on the floor, staring up at the dark sky. “Do you want to talk?”

There’s nothing for a moment, and then Katie says, “Okay,” and they talk.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Steve’s apartment looks better than he does – and while that analogy is effectively meaningless, it doesn’t take away from the fact that it’s a damn good apartment. They fuck on the bed with the windows open and sounds of the city pouring in to drown out everything said and unsaid between them.

Reince is on his knees, gripping the sides of the mattress until he thinks it’s going to rip. He sees his tears drip down and soak into the sheets and he moans as loudly as he can. Steve leaves bruising kisses wherever he can reach, and he fucks into him like the fucking animal he is.

Small droplets of blood stain the sheets and Steve whispers in Reince’s ear, “Tell me you love me.”

“I love you,” Reince says. He chokes on the words but they come out anyway and he’s sobbing as he comes. He covers his face with his arms and cries until Steve spills into him and come drips down between his thighs.

Steve gets up and tosses Reince a towel from a nearby chair. “Clean yourself up,” he orders. “I got a fluff interview with Breitbart lined up for you, so do that while I set up dinner.”

“All right,” Reince says. He catches his phone when Steve tosses it to him, the reporter’s number already inputted into the keypad, but he doesn’t call just yet. There’s a text from Sally and as much as he thinks he shouldn’t check it, he does.

 _Give me one reason why I shouldn’t go public with this_.

He pulls on his underwear and quietly walks down the hallway, watching as Steve, dressed in a loose shirt and boxers, moves around the kitchen and starts setting up the pizza he’d ordered. Netflix is on, some old documentary queued up, and Reince genuinely thinks he’s going to throw up all over again.

 _I don’t have one_ , he texts back, and calls Breitbart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They all meet up in Abby’s apartment around midnight. They all have places to go, things to do, people to be, but still – they need this. This symbol of closure since they can’t get any closure. They were all pawns to someone else’s game – a game that seems to have no winners, only losers; no plot, only exposition; no substance, only stupidity.

She and Glenn were played, Robert and Abby were played, Jim and Jake were played, Katie was played, and Sally Priebus was played. They were all played and for what? For nothing, that’s what.

It’s barely been a day since she decided it, and already she regrets not publishing that article.

Maggie waits until it hits 12:00 then raises her bottle. “To the first hundred days,” she says. “May we live to see the next hundred.”

Everyone drinks to that.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, y'all. 
> 
> If I ever write more Bannon/Priebus, it likely won't be in this 'verse. ~~And hopefully I'll never write more of them tbch~~


End file.
